Bitter
by Jetsam Porridge
Summary: Four years after the final battle, Voldemort and countless others are dead. Harry Potter has been missing since the battle, and is believed to be dead by almost everyone in the wizarding world. But in Muggle England, Harry is desperately trying to escape
1. Prologue

**Title:** Bitter (prologue)  
**Author name:** Jetsam Porridge  
**Author email:**   
**Category:** Drama  
**Sub Category:** Slash  
**Keywords:** post-Hogwarts Harry Draco  
**Rating:** R  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OoTP  
**Summary:** Four years after the final battle, Voldemort and countless others are dead. Harry Potter has been missing since the battle, and is believed to be dead by almost everyone in the wizarding world. But in Muggle England, Harry is desperately trying to escape his past, and the past isn't going to let him go...  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any similarities to any other works are purely coincidental and were not intended by the author.

**A/N: **Yes, I'm starting another chapterfic while still in the middle of a different one. It's Bobbi's fault. Credit goes to her for the idea, which I've taken and shamelessly toyed with. Thanks, as always, to Mille for the beta

**Bitter**

By Jetsam Porridge

_If I could change anything - Then I would change everything - These bitter days - Shall remain _– Nine Days, 'Bitter'

**Prologue**

In the dim light of dawn, the stench of blood and death is almost overpowering. Hermione Granger doesn't try and stop the tears that leave clear tracks down her face. Her head aches; for the last three days and nights she hasn't slept, hasn't even stopped to eat. Her hair is matted, her entire body coated with dirt and blood and she is exhausted.

The fields before her were once covered with green grass and tiny yellow flowers. Trees were scattered here and there, flourishing in the spring, but the peace is long gone from this place. The grass and flowers have been trampled by armies and poisoned by the dead; the trees stripped bare by the deadly curses that had flown back and forth during the battle.

A cold breeze whistles past her and Hermione wraps her arms tighter around herself. In the distance, she can see the enemy's tents – blood red for the most part but one is pure white. Voldemort's, she guesses, a redundant attempt at mockery. The tents are empty now, Death Eaters' bodies scattered unmoving amongst the fields and the live ones taken into custody by the Ministry.

She closes her eyes and the memories assault her again; ropes of green light in the darkness, shouts of _avada__ kedavra_, the screams of the injured and the dying. Watching from the Healing tents as her comrades, her _friends_ were mercilessly killed by sinister figures in dark robes and white masks. Sick terror when Ron brought a limp and pale Ginny into her tent, a gash on his head oozing blood.

She hadn't saved Ginny. Hadn't been able to help her. The _cruciatus_ curse, Madam Pomfrey had said, had caused her mind to flee her body. There was nothing they could have done.

But that didn't alleviate the guilt. Too many were dead. And there were too many more that would spend the rest of their lives insane in St. Mungo's or trying to get by without an arm or a leg.

They had beaten the enemy but they hadn't won.

Hermione hears the swish of the tent flap behind her and steadies herself, taking a deep breath and wiping at her cheeks.

"Hermione," Ron says softly. "You need to sleep."

She shakes her head. There is too much to do. She has the injured to check on, the bodies that need to be buried or burnt. Madam Pomfrey would need her and while she worked she could watch for him...

"No one's seen him, Hermione. No one's seen him since yesterday. But you know Harry, he'll come back when he's ready-"

"What if he's hurt, Ron?" Hermione interrupts desperately, whirling around. "What if he's lying somewhere waiting for us because he can't move? What if he needs our help? If that was me out there, wouldn't you go looking? Why aren't they looking for him?"

"They are."

The tears come again, and Hermione bites her lip, frantically trying to regain control. Ron takes her by the elbow and leads her back inside the tent, where she curls up on the camp bed and sobs until she falls asleep.

Only then does Ron let himself cry.

---

Not far away, a small mound rises from the ground; the only place where the grass is still green and the flowers still yellow. No signs of the battle can be found here but for the body lying deathly still, white hair tussled by the wind.

Albus Dumbledore had stood on that mound for hours, magic crackling the air around him until a well-aimed killing curse from Lucius Malfoy had broken through his magical shields.

It is this that hurts the most, Harry Potter decides. All the others deaths he has seen pale in comparison to this. His mentor, his protector; the one person he knew without a doubt that he could count on. He crouches over the body, fingers reverently hovering above the closed eyelids.

He shudders violently, stands and backs away a few steps. His gaze lifts after a moment, and he sees the sprawling camp. Faintly, he can make out Madam Pomfrey bustling into the main Healing tent.

He hesitates a second, then steps down from the mound and walks away.

---

On the other side of the battlefields, amongst the tents that Hermione had thought empty, a tall, lanky boy of seventeen sits curled up on the ground. His eyes are shut, hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block out the sights and sounds of the battle as he remembers it.

Draco Malfoy killed people for the first time last night.

And not even with the excuse of self-defence, as those he'd killed had. No, he had been the attacker, the predator, hunting his quarry and seeking out his enemy.

His enemy, they'd told him. The enemy that he'd gone to school with for _seven years_.

Where can he go? His allies are dead. He can't go to Dumbledore – how could he ask the old man to take him in as if nothing has happened? He would be taken straight to Azkaban if he tried.

There is nowhere he can go.

Draco Malfoy takes a deep breath, stands up, and runs.

---

In the dim light of dawn, the Order of the Phoenix mourn their dead. Mad-Eye Moody gruffly tells an exhausted Nymphadora Tonks that she will be promoted for her efforts during the battle. Pomfrey examines the wounded and Snape awkwardly tries to comfort a sobbing McGonagall. Fred and George Weasley dig a grave for their dead sister. Hermione sleeps fitfully and Ron watches over her, trying to ignore his own tears.

And in the dim light of dawn, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy slip away, never to be seen again.

---


	2. Chapter 1

**Title:** Bitter (01)  
**Author name:** Jetsam Porridge  
**Author email:**   
**Category:** Drama  
**Sub Category:** Angst  
**Keywords:** post-Hogwarts Harry Draco  
**Rating:** R  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OoTP  
**Summary:** Four years after the final battle, Voldemort and countless others are dead. Harry Potter has been missing since the battle, and is believed to be dead by almost everyone in the wizarding world. But in Muggle England, Harry is desperately trying to escape his past, and the past isn't going to let him go...  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any similarities to any other works are purely coincidental and were not intended by the author.

**A/N:** Thanks to Mille for the beta. For teh mofo.

**Bitter**

By Jetsam Porridge

__

_Our individual roles we think – Not so important to the plot – The big picture unseen – Leaving life in between – Destroyed and overwrought – You see there's many many many – People in the world – And I'm not sure if I like – What I've heard – I'm not sure if I like – What I'm doing myself – I'm not sure if I like how it turns_ – No Doubt, 'World Go 'Round'

**Chapter One**

Grocery bags in one hand, Harry Potter fumbled in his jeans pocket for his keys. Above him, the stairwell lights flickered incessantly. The scent of cheap gin and cigarettes lingered in the stale air, as it was everywhere in this place. Granted, it was dank and dirty and generally an unpleasant place to live, but it was cheap and anonymous and that was why he was there.

As Harry triumphantly pulled his keys from his pocket, the handle on one of his bags broke and tins of food spilled everywhere. He swore and unlocked the door to his flat.

Dumping the bags he still held in the doorway, Harry sighed. He collected the spilt groceries and went inside, shoving the other bags out of his way with his foot and nudging the door closed behind him.

He'd been living at this flat for almost four months now. He didn't really like it but what choice did he have? She'd found him at the last place and the place before that… Muggle Manchester had seemed like the best, if not the most desirable, option.

Harry's cat, who he'd inherited with the flat, purred and twined itself around his legs.

"Alright, Max?" he crooned, bending to stroke the cat's fuzzy grey fur. He picked up the groceries again and carried them the few steps to the kitchen, where he unceremoniously dropped them on the counter. He glanced at the answering machine and was surprised to see the light flashing. He hesitated before playing the message.

_Beep._

"You have one message; Tuesday, 4:37pm."

_Beep._

"She's onto you," a familiar voice said. "Come see me."

_Beep._

"End of messages."

For a moment, silence reigned in the flat.

"Fuck."

---

Harry hated being outside in the early morning. There was something about the light of dawn that made him shiver. Yet here he was, outside the Manchester branch of _Denzien and Associates_ at 7 o'clock in the morning.

He also hated coming here but once again, he didn't have a choice.

He pushed open the door and stepped through into the foyer. He always felt out of place here, where everyone was perfectly groomed in suits or conservative dresses and where everyone seemed to be dressed to match the pristine white walls and sheer tiled floor. Self-consciously, Harry tugged at his old grey sweatshirt and ran a hand through his hair.

"Can I help you?" the secretary asked politely.

"Yes," he said. "I'm here to see Mr. Denzien."

"Your name, please?"

"James Black."

"Alright, Mr. Black, follow me."

She stood up, stepped out from behind the desk and led him through a maze of corridors until they reached a door labelled 'Malcolm Denzien, P.I.'

"Wait here a moment," she instructed him, opening the door and slipping inside. Within a minute she returned. "Mr. Denzien will see you now."

"Thank you."

As she disappeared back down the hallway, Harry took a deep breath before opening the door.

"Mr. Black. It's good to see you again."

Harry didn't answer.

"Please, sit." The other man gestured to the chair opposite him.

Malcolm Denzien was a gaunt man in his late forties. His hair was greying but for as long as Harry had known him, he'd always managed to look well-groomed and businesslike. He was good at his job, dedicated and trustworthy, which was exactly why Harry had hired him in the first place. You couldn't get much better than Malcolm Denzien, P.I.

"You said she's found me," Harry said bluntly, perching on the edge of the chair.

"Ah, Mr. Black, I said she's _onto_ you, but she hasn't _found_ you. Relax."

"What do you mean, she's _onto _me?"

Malcolm leant forward, palms flat on his desk. "We think she may suspect that you're here in Manchester. She was seen talking to the owner of that pub you like."

Harry let out an explosive breath of air, stood up and began to pace. Malcolm watched him without comment.

"I'll move again," Harry said, whirling to face him. "Somewhere new. Glasgow? Or maybe I'll go to Paris-"

"I've already made arrangements for you in London."

"London? But I just came from there!"

"Exactly."

Harry chewed his lip worriedly.

"We've found a nice apartment for you and a good job. At a second-hand bookshop."

"How soon?"

"As soon as you can be ready."

Harry snorted. "I can be ready this afternoon."

"This afternoon, then. We'll have your things transported to the new place. I'll meet you there at 8 tonight. This address."

He slid a piece of paper across the desk and Harry took it, scanning it quickly. He looked up and his eyes met Malcolm's.

"Thank you," Harry said quietly, and left.

Once he'd gone, Malcolm sat back again. The senior partners wouldn't be happy with his moving offices again. They would probably kick up a major fuss, complaining, as usual, that he did too much for this James Black.

But James Black was a high-paying customer, and there wasn't much Malcolm wouldn't do for him. He didn't know exactly who or what the man was running from, but he would help Black as long as he was being paid and he wouldn't betray him.

Besides, he was the best for the job. You couldn't get much better than Malcolm Denzien, P.I.

---

The lights in the London Underground flashed by the train's windows so fast that one could almost believe that they were one continuous stream of light. These lights had always fascinated Harry, ever since he'd first been on the Underground when he was seven years old. But God, he hated moving again. He sometimes wondered if she'd ever stop looking for him but he knew her. He'd been friends with her for seven years. They'd practically grown up together.

No, she wouldn't stop looking until she found him.

Harry sighed, head dropping to rest on the window beside him. He watched the lights as they flashed past. It was so hard, having to run all the time. Having to start over and over again in new places, in new jobs. If she'd been here, she would have chided him for living like this.

But this was what he'd chosen, four years ago and he was damned if he changed his mind now. He'd be 'Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived _Again_, Then Mysteriously Disappeared and Suddenly Reappeared Four Years Later.' There'd be a fuss, and yet again he'd be whispered about wherever he went.

It was better this way, he told himself.

He was lucky, come to think of it, that no one had recognised him thus far. He'd seen a few of them – Pansy Parkinson, going into a London boutique three years ago; Oliver Wood, wrapped around an unidentified brunette outside a pub in Glasgow a few months after the battle; even Dennis and Colin Creevey, having a friendly argument in a grocery store in Cornwall when Harry had been there last summer. But he wasn't really surprised. He'd cut his hair and gotten contact lenses, and the scar, his most distinguishing feature, had faded soon after Voldemort's death.

Of course no one had recognised him. Everything recognisable had changed or gone.

Yet here he was, on a train, on his way to yet another home. He'd been everywhere over the last four years – Glasgow, London, Devon, Liverpool, Dublin, Blackpool, Cornwall, a few odd country towns and, most recently, Manchester. Even now, her resources impressed him. Each time, she'd arrived where he was staying in no longer than a few months.

As the train pulled into Central Station, Harry stood and told himself that things would be different this time. This time, she wouldn't find him.

---

When Harry arrived at the address Malcolm had given him, he found the man himself waiting patiently under a street lamp. They nodded at each other, not speaking, and Harry followed the other man up the driveway to the door. Malcolm inserted a key into the lock, turned it and led Harry inside.

"Three flights of stairs up, and the third door on the left."

"Thanks."

"Your keys – for this building, your flat, and your car."

"Thanks."

"I'll be in touch," Malcolm said, and left.

"Thanks," Harry said to the closing door. He turned and made his way up the stairs to the third door on the left. Already he could tell that this place was nicer than the Manchester flat. For one thing, the lights didn't flicker, and it didn't smell like cheap alcohol or cigarettes either. He fit the key into its lock and opened the door.

Immediately his jaw dropped. Slowly, he walked inside, gaze drinking up every single detail.

The flat was not unlike Malcolm's offices. The front door opened into a small living area complete with a few armchairs, a coffee table and a small television. White walls were complemented by polished dark floorboards and dark furniture. Granted, the room was littered with boxes of his stuff, but they didn't disguise the beauty of the place.

From there, a door led into a little kitchen; black and grey granite with silver appliances. Another door took him through into a stylish bathroom complete with the largest shower he'd ever seen; never mind that it took up half the entire room. A third door directed him into a bedroom, all black and white and dark wood. It was simple, elegant and Harry wondered how on earth he could afford this on his budget.

Just then a knock sounded on the door and Harry jumped. Cautiously, he wound his way through the boxes and opened the door a little way.

"New in town?" slurred the man on the other side. "Do you do hard stuff?"

Harry backed away from the proffered needle. "Um, n-no," he stammered, hurriedly shutting the door.

Obviously, this was why he could afford it. He was in drug town. Harry closed his eyes and leant back against the door, sighing.

Well, at least the apartment was nice.

---

Three weeks later, Harry had learnt what times were bad times to be walking around the building, which people he should avoid and which places he should definitely not go near. He could successfully drive his new (although it was actually rather old) Merc around the London streets and could tell the difference between the key to his building and the key to his flat. He'd settled into his job at the bookshop and could remember where all his crockery was stashed. He'd located a good pub where he could waste his nights – and his wages – away and a shop that sold fairly inexpensive clothes. He'd found the supermarket that was relatively uncrowded on a Sunday evening and the liquor store that sold cheap Vodka of reasonable quality.

He even suspected, on the odd occasion, that he _liked_ his new life.

Which is why he was oddly surprised to find himself staring into his empty beer mug and feeling sad.

As was his long-standing routine, he was spending Friday night at his favourite pub. The pub wasn't busy on this particular night. There were a few couples scattered here and there, and at the other end of the bar where he sat, a young man flirted with an even younger girl, who Harry secretly suspected wasn't overage at all and had gotten into the pub on the merit of her rather short skirt.

It wasn't a new feeling, being the only person alone in the pub but tonight, Harry felt it, and as he ordered another beer, he grudgingly admitted it to himself.

He was lonely.

Four years of being alone does that to people. He'd known this life would be lonely when he'd chosen it – actually, that had been one of the reasons he'd chosen it. He'd spent the first eleven years of his life with no one, then suddenly _everyone _knew him, _everyone _wanted to be his friend. And now he was back to no one again; a solitary life except for brief, businesslike contact with Malcolm and whoever was his current employer.

But now he found himself wishing for company. Even if it was just an acquaintance; someone who he could get drunk with on a Friday or Saturday night. That would be enough.

Harry sipped his beer, watching the couple at the end of the bar. Distantly, he heard the doorbell jingle, but didn't register it until its cause walked into his line of sight and plonked itself down on the bar stool next to Harry.

Harry blinked in surprise.

The newcomer was a tall man who looked to be about his own age, dressed in a black trench coat and dark slacks. He wore his blonde hair long, cut so that it fell over the half his face nearest Harry, thereby effectively preventing Harry from seeing his face. The man crooked a finger at the bartender and ordered a martini, voice soft and smoky. He pulled a cigarette from a packet in his coat pocket and held a lighter to it.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked, glancing sideways at Harry.

"Um, no," Harry replied blankly.

"Will Roane," the man said, dropping the lighter on the counter and offering his hand to Harry, who grasped it in return.

"James Black."

"Come here often, James Black?"

"I'm new in town," Harry explained.

"Where you from?" Will said, blowing smoke into the air in front of him.

Harry blinked again. "Um, Blackpool."

A safe place to mention - it was years since he'd been there.

"Why'd you come here?" Distaste was obvious in Will's voice. Harry shrugged.

"I wanted to."

Will shook his head. "Dunno why you'd want to come here of all places. There's nothing here except the druggies and the sluts, and believe me, the sluts aren't anything special either."

Harry said nothing.

"Oh well. Guess you got your reasons, eh? Got a job yet?"

"Um, yeah. At the second-hand bookshop."

"Yeah, I know it. Nice place."

"I like it."

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, content to just sip at their drinks. As Harry, draining the last of his beer, replaced the mug on the counter and proceeding to trace its edge with one finger, Will turned to look at him fully for the first time.

Harry caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, looked up, and couldn't stifle a gasp.

A deep lightning bolt scar cut from his hairline down through Will's right eyebrow.

"Let me guess, the scar?" Will asked ruefully.

Harry swallowed and gathered himself. Now that he looked closer, he could see other small scars scattered across the other man's face, all of various shapes and sizes, and some that were deeper than others. But that lightning bolt…it reminded him, painfully, of his old scar.

"Looks like it was painful."

Will shrugged and looked back down at the bar. "Yeah."

Again there was silence, and Harry fidgeted guiltily.

"Don't worry about it," Will said softly. "Most people have the same reaction."

"It's just…I, um…it's…unusual," Harry finished lamely. "How did you get it?"

Will didn't answer.

"Alright then, Will," Harry began apologetically. "It was nice to meet you, but I have to, um, go…"

He trailed off, then slipped off the stool and, dropping a few pound notes on the counter, fled the bar. Later, he would wish that he wasn't such a huge incompetent idiot, since Will had been the first person he'd talked to outside of _Denzien__ and Associates_, or his job, since he'd arrived back in London.

Back at the bar, the man who called himself Will Roane wondered why he always seemed to talk to people who'd run away when they saw the scars. And for the millionth time, the man's whose name was really Draco Malfoy wished that he didn't have the stupid lightning scar.

---

Hermione tiredly slid her house key into the lock and turned it. Stepping inside, she called out her arrival. She dropped her bag, coat and keys on the table next to the door, closed it behind her and went straight to her favourite chair, collapsing into it.

As her eyes drifted shut, she felt his hands fall on her shoulders, and she reached up to place her own hands over his.

"You didn't find him," Ron said quietly.

Hermione shook her head. "I was so sure this time, Ron."

"Hermione-"

"Don't start," she interrupted. "Just…just don't."

Ron sighed. There'd never be any reasoning with her on this. There never had been. Even though he never said it, they both knew that he thought it was pointless.

But Hermione firmly believed that Harry was out there somewhere, and she wouldn't stop looking until she found him.

---


End file.
